


Rough Grip, Gentle Eyes

by ifinkufreaky



Series: Vikings Season Five One-Shots [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Christian guilt, Dubcon/Noncon, Dubious Consent, F/M, Loss of Virginity, Mixed Motives, sinning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 13:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12984783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifinkufreaky/pseuds/ifinkufreaky
Summary: Ubbe saves a nun during the attack on York. He fights with his Viking nature and she does not ultimately help him clean his conscience. I tried to channel all those glorious mixed feelings we saw in him in the premier as he decides to "rescue" this girl, and maintain his pride as a Viking at the same time.From a prompt requesting Ubbe's moment with the nun during episode 5x02 get a "better" ending. I know I'm going to hell for this one.





	Rough Grip, Gentle Eyes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [RedBubbleGun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedBubbleGun/gifts).



Your sister hands you the knife, already bloodied with the crimson spilling down her wrists. The heathens have broken all the way to the front of the congregation and there is no other choice left for a faithful child of God. She stumbles and falls away from you, right into the arms of one of the giant beasts bearing down upon you. You get a glimpse of his wild eyes, piercing blue even in the dark of the cathedral, before her weight spins him around.

He cradles her, you are shocked to see. Amidst all the chaos of the hell erupting around you, this man is showing her mercy, tenderness even. He holds her like your father used to hold your mother as he guides her dying body down to the floor.

You should do it now, while he’s distracted. You look down at the sharp little knife the sister gave you and set it against your wrist.

You hear a growling word that you are almost certain means “no” in the heathen language; when you look up that same merciful savage is stepping toward you, palms outstretched with fingers wide. “No,” he repeats again, more gently.

You seem unable to move as he steps as close to you as a lover and wraps his fingers around the hand holding the knife.

A cry bursts from your throat and you crumple against his chest, letting him take the blade from you. You are terrified of the godless raiders but you do not want to end your life that way, either. You can only hope now that this man with the soulful eyes will show you some kind of mercy, too.

At first he does not respond to your tears, but after a moment his arms crush around you in a gesture that feels like comfort. He remains centered in his stance but hugs you to his chest and murmurs something, but you cannot understand him. All you can do is pluck at his waist like a child and hope he understands you are asking for help.

He pulls your face back so he can inspect your tear-stained cheeks. He looks haunted, brow creased and eyes wide. He looks like a good man, even though you have been told all of these heathens are slobbering monsters intent on raping and burning everything you hold dear. “Please,” you beg. Your eyes flit to the door, impossibly far from you across the church that has become a slaughterhouse. “Help me out of here.”

He looks around, his fingers gripping your arms tighter. The violence that surrounds is unrelenting. He shakes his head, then pulls you with him as he begins to move. The word that drops from his lips sounds like “come.”

He keeps his grip around your shoulders as you move toward the great, gaping doors of the cathedral, sunlight shining through them like the promise of heaven if you could only fight your way through this hell to get there. But the man pulling you along does not need to fight. Everyone that looks at him makes way; you wonder if your savior is an important man amongst these barbarians. Some give him ferocious smiles and leer as they look over your body. You try not to be naïve; this heathen might be taking you somewhere just to violate you. But you have no better option for survival than this one. You had your chance to choose death before dishonor, and you did not take it. Right or wrong, you had chosen to put your fate into the hands of this blonde, bearded warrior with a rough grip and gentle eyes.

He stops when you emerge out into the street. The thin sun turns out to be barely a comfort; as you look around the streets of your city you hardly recognize anything. Dead bodies litter the ground, carts overturned and some of the buildings are even burning. You feel his hands pushing you away as you survey the damage.

Panic surges through you at the loss of his steadying presence. Your savior has turned away, stepping up to re-enter the cathedral. “Please, no!” you cry, grabbing hold of his sleeve. There are other Vikings marauding these streets, with not a trace of kindness in their faces. “Do not leave me alone!”

He turns back and stares down at you, more angry now. You cannot afford to cower in the face of it; he is your only hope. “Take me somewhere safe,” you beg, bringing your body close to his again. He brought you out of the church; clearly he has some impulse to care for you. You can’t let go of that now. “I have nowhere to go.” Ever since your parents died, the nunnery had been all that you knew. These heathens are tearing down the very church around you, so there is no other solace for you now.

He points down the street, barking harsh words in your face. You shiver but shake your head, refusing to release his arm, which you’re now pulling on like you’re drowning.

His jaw clenches but his eyes soften. He brings a hand slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin just beneath your eye. He’s smearing blood on you but he doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes are asking you something but you can’t tell what. All you can do is press your body closer to his; you have nothing else left.

He looks back at the church door, turns his head to survey the ugly street. One of the marauding men looks the two of you up and down and then lays his axe against the door to a deserted building, pushing it open and cocking his head with a suggestive grin aimed at your savior.

The two of them exchange loud, boisterous words. It is not very hard to guess what they are discussing. This man who has become your only hope squeezes you tighter. You can feel his urge to protect you from the others in every movement of his powerful body.

He pulls you toward that doorway and you go willingly; anything as long as he does not abandon you. The other man moves out of your way and turns to run down the street with a bellowing war cry. Whatever they were discussing, your savior seems to have succeeded in taking the man’s interest away from you.

You are alone with him now. The room is a modest home; you hope that whoever it belonged to got away before the killing began but you know that is not very likely. Both your eyes stray to the bed.

You did not enter the nunnery by choice; it was the only place that would take you after your parents died. You tried to be an obedient child of God but you had always wondered about the carnal knowledge you were missing, not leading the life of other women your age.

The heathen’s hands are still on your arms, kneading your flesh now. When you look up at him he seems to be at war with himself. This was not how you had ever thought you would want to get that carnal knowledge, but you find in this moment you are not afraid. You lean into him, just a little.

As if it takes great personal effort, he shoves you in the general direction of the bed. “Dvöl,” he says. “þú verður öruggur hér.” He turns on his heel and heads toward the door.

“No, I won’t be safe here!” you cry, and rush to intercept him before he can open it again.

He stops in his tracks, though his back is still to you. He takes a breath so deep you can hear it clearly, in and out. Then he whirls and grabs you so hard it hurts, eyes bright and deranged. “Er þetta það sem þú vilt að ég geri?” he bellows, and pushes you back toward the bed. “ég er Víkingur! Þú getur ekki treyst neinum af okkur!” You take a few steps back under his pressure, but manage to remain standing. His face twists and he pulls the white habit off your head.

This is how it begins. You won’t be afraid. You breathe in deeply through your nose and stand up straighter.

He takes some of your hair between his fingers, caresses it softly. His eyes are hard as he stares at you, like you are the one wronging him somehow. His other hand slides over your ribs, down the middle of your back and over the swell of your ass. You inhale sharply when he squeezes it, and his fingers dip between your legs and brush against something sensitive and thrilling.

His eyebrows jump when he sees your reaction; he repeats the gesture, pressing deeper between your legs. This time a soft moan escapes your lips at the sinful pleasure his touch has raised in your core. You feel your body relaxing, sliding to rest more firmly against his. You bring your hands to the back of his neck to steady yourself. Your fingers rub slowly over his shaved scalp as you stare at each other from inches apart, eyes wide.

He still looks frustrated and you still cannot figure out why. He actually growls and then covers your mouth with his own. He almost bites at your lips, fingers buried in your hair to control the angle of your head, turning you up to open to him further. His tongue licks across your lips and you open to his insistent pressure. The hand between your legs is pressing you against the front of his body, scooping your weight up as his pressure at your womanhood is almost cruel, sending shockwaves of delicious heat through you.

You are sure now that he is going to take your maidenhead. His passion should frighten you but all you feel is exhilarated. When he takes a step in, pushing you again toward the bed, you fall back willingly. He scoops your long, white skirts out of his way as he descends to cover your body with his own.

His rough hand slides up against the inside of your bare thigh. His mouth is everywhere, attacking your neck, your breast, then his hot breath is falling heavy and ragged against your cheek as he fumbles with his belt.

His whirlwind of movements stops; he takes your chin and forces you to look at him. Then he grips one of your hands at the wrist and brings it down to the hard organ he has freed from his pants. There is a burning question in his eyes as he wraps your fingers around his cock.

The skin is softer than you expected, velvety smooth over an iron core that brings a flush to your whole body. His eyes darken and relax at the same time as you twist your palm, quietly exploring something you’ve never touched before.

“Viltu það?” he asks, and rocks his hips briefly into your palm. Something about the carnal movement makes you melt and squirm, even though you have always been told to be afraid of something like this ever happening to you. The heated pleasure in his face is absolutely intoxicating.

The heathen slides his hand up your leg again, pushing your skirts until you are completely bare to him below the waist. His warm fingers slide over the curls on your mound and then slip in between your folds, teasing at what he finds there until you find yourself a writhing, wanton mess. You don’t feel any of the shame a Christian woman should. You might not deserve to wear that white habit again, now that he has taken it off you, and shown you what a wicked woman lies underneath. This heathen’s fingers are sliding in and out of your body, slick with your arousal, and you don’t want this feeling to ever end.

He growls again, a low noise from the back of his throat, as he lays his body fully over yours and lines himself up with your entrance. He presses in gently yet inexorably, watching your face with a masterful gaze as he makes you take him inch by steady inch. There is a sting, then a burn, then a pressure like you’ve never felt before, stretching your insides to make room for his cock. So he can fill you in a way that gives him obvious, almost overwhelming pleasure. His hands are on your shoulders in a grip that is halfway between restraining and reassuring.

When his hips meet yours he sags against you just a bit, closing his eyes and tipping just a little deeper like he’s savoring his conquest. He murmurs something in his language appreciatively and then you gasp in relief as he start to draw himself out of you again. Before he withdraws completely, he’s pushing back in, and you notice that the pain is a little less with every repeat of his journey. As it recedes, the most intense sort of pleasure starts to take its place, something that feels like temptation and torture both at once. It helps if you start to move too, and soon you find that you are meeting his thrusts with eager rolling motions of your own hips.

The unfamiliar sensation of this sinful pleasure builds greater and greater, and the Viking giving it to you only increases his pace as it goes. It feels like some great pressure is building deep inside you, and it’s good but it’s overwhelming and soon your hands are scrambling against his body, trying to push him away just to get some relief. He gathers them up effortlessly and pins your wrists above your head with one rough hand, but he's making soothing noises while he does it and slowing his movements inside you until the intensity isn't quite so sharp. The change does not stop the dizzying sensation that your body is somehow going to fall apart. All you can do is stare up into his face as he takes his pleasure from your flesh and hope that he's not actually killing you in some way.

The strange sensation is making your legs tense and wrap around the heathen's body, keeping him close as he ruts into you. He's grunting with every thrust now, and the deeper he goes the more overwhelming the ache inside you becomes. You focus on the frightening intimacy of his eyes and suddenly that building pressure cracks, pouring white-hot pleasure through your limbs and up your spine until you cannot hold back your scream.

You feel a little bit embarrassed about whatever just happened to you, but the sinner above you seemed to like it, smiling and encouraging the spasming little aftershocks ringing through your body. He frightens you when he grits his teeth and groans, then his body seems to do the same thing yours just did. His hips stutter and grind hard into yours, his straining breath hot in the crook of your neck.

The heathen sags, most of his weight coming to rest on top of you. He makes little mumbling sounds, both content and a little sad, still burrowing his face behind your ear.

When he rolls away you follow, seeking the comfort of his arms instinctively as he comes to rest on his back. You fear he might push you off, as he has been trying to do since this nightmare started, but after one endless moment of hesitation he wraps his strength around you, welcoming your body to settle against his armored chest. Your fate is still entirely in his hands. But after this moment of connection, damning as it was to your soul, you find yourself less afraid. As the man pulls you close into his comforting grip, you just know that he will never let go of you again.

**Author's Note:**

> Paste Ubbe's lines into Google Translate if you want to know what he said. I use their Icelandic as my lazy stand-in for Old Norse.


End file.
